


Living

by placentalmammal



Category: Friends at the Table (Podcast)
Genre: Bets & Wagers, Blood and Injury, Blow Jobs, Dirty Talk, Hand Jobs, Harm to Animals, Hunters & Hunting, M/M, Size Difference, Xeno
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-26
Updated: 2019-01-26
Packaged: 2019-10-17 05:41:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,225
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17554454
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/placentalmammal/pseuds/placentalmammal
Summary: Throndir accepts a bet from Red Jack: venture into the woods beyond the Last University, find the First Deer, and return by sundown. The stakes are inexact, but he's determined to win.Set early in Long Winter.





	Living

**Author's Note:**

  * For [elestaus](https://archiveofourown.org/users/elestaus/gifts).



> Contains descriptions of injury to animals and references to hunting. All the animals make it out ok, but there's some blood!

As dusk falls, the forest goes silent and still. It’s as if the trees and all the creatures that nest in their branches are holding their breath, waiting. Nothing stirs, with the exception of a lone fox slinking back to her den, a rabbit clutched in her jaws. Throndir, resting on his haunches, watches her progress through narrowed eyes. Death—undeath, really—honed his senses. His vision is keener than any living creature's, sharp enough to make out the individual hairs on the back of a fox picking her way through the brush to bring dinner to her kits.

He's on the trail of a legendary deer, a massive beast said to be seventeen hands or more with a hide like iron, its flanks marked with centuries of scars. This is the First Deer, the mold from which all others have been cast. It is unfathomably ancient, as old as Hieron itself.

His quarry is the First Deer, but Throndir is not the first hunter. Far from it. Red Jack has told him stories about the First Deer—campfire stories, fables about foolish hunters bested by the tricksy animal. When Jack tells stories, he tells them with his whole body. He squares his shoulders to a boastful hunter to life, he stretches his arms wide to illustrate the spread of the Deer's antlers.

When Jack tells stories, Throndir watches him with the same intensity with which he watches the fox. He's made an intimate study of the oni, noting the mat of coarse hair that covers his chest, the curvature of his chitinous horns. In battle, he wears black armor smithed from something like a beetle's carapace. In leisure, he goes around bare chested, his pierced nipples and prodigious belly exposed.

(Jack’s nipples caught his attention for several reasons. Throndir asked him once if oni nursed their young; Jack had said that was a question for another time and changed the subject without offering a real answer. Rosana and Corsica had been similarly disinterested in discussing the utility of oni nipples, and Ephrim had given him a  _ look _ and asked why he was asking.)

Unslinging his bow, Throndir rises to his feet. It's late in the season, and there's a promise of spring in the chilly air. The snow's melted halfway, and the snow banks are covered in a thin sheen of ice where they've thawed and then refrozen. The ground is slick underfoot, but Throndir grew up in Auniq. He's an expert in moving silently through wintry woods, and he keeps one eye on the ground and the other on the horizon, scanning the trees for signs of the Deer's passage. He presses deeper into the woods, placing his feet carefully to avoid patches of ice and slush.

For once, he's alone. Kodiak remained behind at the Last University with the refugee children, who've proven to be a never-ending source of belly rubs and sandwich crusts. He'd actually  _ whined _ when Throndir called him away, and all the kids pressed close, clinging to Kodiak's fur, lower lips trembling exaggeratedly while they looked up at Throndir with big, sad eyes.

"Don't give me that," said Throndir, exasperated. "C'mon, I need you on this hunt."

Kodiak whined and one of the kids sniffled piteously. "He's my friend," she said.

"He's a vicious attack dog."

"My _ best _ friend."

Kodiak whuffed in agreement, and the little girl buried her face in the ruff of his neck. "Let me say goodbye," she said mournfully. "Good-bye, Kodiak. I love you. Don't forget me."

Kodiak licked the girl's cheek and fixed Throndir with a doleful look.

"You're the worst," he said. "All of you."

After another fifteen minutes of unsuccessful negotiations, Throndir gave up and set off alone into the darkening woods. As dusk settled in around him, his anxiety began to mount. The First Deer was said to live in the oldest part of the woods, said to be silver-white and absolutely massive, said to have gored unwary hunters with its huge antlers and sharpened hooves. He would really rather  _ not _ pursue the beast, but he'd let his mouth get ahead of them after an evening of drinking and boasting with Red Jack.

"It's just a deer," he'd said, unable to take his eyes off Jack's bare chest. "I'm  _ the _ Ranger. How hard could it be, really?"

Jack's laugh split the air like a thunderclap. "Shall we find out?" he said, eyes glimmering. He had leaned in conspiratorially, and Throndir had smelled the musk of his strange red skin, felt the intense heat of his body. He realized immediately that he was in over his head, but with Jack so close, he could only nod.

That was how it started. A competition between them, a friendly wager with maddeningly inexact terms: find the Deer, return by daybreak with proof, claim a favor. Throndir should be focusing entirely on the task at hand, but his mind is unsettled, flitting from thought to thought like a bird among branches.

Is a kiss a favor? If so, would Jack grant him one, if he asked? Do tusks complicate kisses? He should have asked Lem when he had the chance, except then Lem would probably have assumed that Throndir wanted to kiss  _ him _ , and—

_ Focus _ .

The trees here show marks of recent activity: scat, gouges in the bark from a rutting, all the smallest and most tender branches chewed off. There are fresh tracks all around the base of the trees: a large set with a deep tread and several smaller, daintier prints, but not a single identifiable set. He's close and getting closer.

He follows the trail of broken trees, picking his way over the gnarled roots until he comes to a streambed, still half-frozen. In a few weeks, the water will be running high and fast, fed by snowmelt from the mountains to the north. Now, the creek sits low in its banks, water moving sluggishly under a thin crust of ice. There's a cycle to it, the rise and fall of the wet and dry seasons, abridged and interrupted by the alien winter. Throndir is seized by a sudden bleak mood and he finds himself wondering whether this is the last of it, whether the stream will be swallowed up by the Heat and the Dark before it can resume its usual course.

Somewhere, somewhere nearby, the Heat and the Dark is pressing in. But here, by this frozen stream, it is almost spring. Throndir can feel the seeds germinating underfoot, the heat of their new life radiating upward through frozen earth to warm the soles of his feet. The sun has set and the nightbirds have come out of hiding. They're too cautious to sing, but still brave enough to search for nesting grounds, someplace safe to lay their eggs.

Everything, everywhere, looking for a place to begin again.

He shakes himself and sets off again, pressing deeper into the woods. The trees here are older, denser, closer together. High overhead, their branches have grown close together and formed a kind of latticework ceiling, blotting out the sun and stars and casting the forest floor in near-total darkness. Throndir has to slow his stride, picking his way carefully over the gnarled roots of the ancient trees. He can't afford to let himself be slowed down by a sprained or broken ankle, especially not tonight. He has a wager to win.

Here, in the oldest part of the forest, he counters additional signs of the First Deer. There are more tracks, more scat, and when the wind changes, he catches the musty scent of a large animal. He goes still, palm pressed flat against the trunk of an ancient oak, and focuses intently on the life energies of the sleeping forest.

There's a family of rabbits in a nearby warren. Wintergrass and tender crocus pushing through the snowmelt, angling to catch the light of the new sun. Somewhere nearby, something  _ huge _ with a warm, beating heart.

The First Deer. It _ must _ be.

Mindful of the uneven ground, Throndir quickens his step. The Deer blazes bright as a bonfire, brighter than anything else in the forest. It's in a clearing no more than a hundred yards away, and he catches flashes of it through the trees. Its coat is silver-white, shining like a star in the indirect moonlight.

The First Deer is both leaner and more muscular than those he hunted as a boy, its eyes larger and more intelligent. Its hide is pocked and cratered like the surface of the moon, crossed and crisscrossed with scar tissue. The weight of all its years are like a physical presence in the glade, hanging suspended in the air like dust motes in sunlight. It's enough to stop Throndir in his tracks, halfway between a walk and a crouch, back bent as if in prostration before a king or god.

The First Deer—First  _ Doe _ , he realizes—lifts her head at  his approach, one black eye fixed warily on him. Slowly, so as to not spook her, Throndir straightens, raising his hands in supplication.

She considers. Her liquid eyes wander from his empty hands to the bow on his back and the knife hanging from his belt. She doesn’t need to speak to convey her disdain.

“Okay, fair. You have a point.”

She snorts and her breath hangs in the air, a cloud at her lips. Another moment of consideration, and then she relaxes incrementally, allowing him to take another step toward her. Slowly, carefully, Throndir unsheathes his knife, sets it on the frozen ground, and then lays his bow down beside it. The First Doe watches him, and then one ear twitches.

He has the sense he’s being laughed at. “I’m the Ranger,” he says, and he feels a little foolish, to be speaking aloud and receiving no reply. “I have a bet on—kind of a wager. I’m supposed to find you.”

Something in her demeanour changes when he introduces himself as the Ranger. Her eyes brighten, her ear twitches toward him. She turns in a slow circle, moving so that he can see her other side, and—

Her hide is black with dried blood, a broken arrow protruding from her flank. Throndir gasps, and the Doe fixes him with a weary look, dark eyes rolling back in her head as if to say  _ you see? _

“I’m sorry,” he says, speaking softly. “I can help, if you let me.”

The Doe is still and silent. After a moment, she relents, and motions him closer with a flick of an ear. Throndir approaches like a supplicant, slowly, palms upraised, and the Doe tolerates his nearness. She lets him close enough to touch her, and she’s still as stone underneath his hands. He prods at the wound, and is relieved to find the cut cleaner and shallower than it seemed at first glance. The arrowhead isn’t barbed, just stuck fast. No danger in pulling it out, just an unthinkable amount of pain.

“This will hurt,” he cautions, wrapping his hand around the shaft. “Are you sure—”

She huffs, breath clouding in the chill air. This time he’s  _ sure  _ he’s being laughed at.

“Alright,” he says. “On three.”

He pulls the arrow out on ‘two,’ and the Doe shudders, muscles rippling in her flank. Throndir pats her neck, whispering soothing words, and after a moment, she’s recovered enough from the shock to shy away from his touch. She takes a few cautious steps, testing her strength. Obviously pleased, she walks the length of the clearing and then returns to press her nose into Throndir’s outstretched palm. She looks at him a moment longer, studying him as though memorizing his face, and then she takes off, leaping into the brush, her white tail flashing.

Throndir watches her until she’s gone, arrow dangling loosely from his fist. He turns around, meaning to recover his knife and bow when he’s stuck from the side by something very large and very heavy.

He goes down gracelessly, kicking and flailing as a tremendous bulk settles itself on his chest. As he falls, he has a brief impression of horns protruding from lank black hair and flashing white teeth, bared in a grin.

“ _ Jack _ —”

Throndir struggles against Jack’s bulk, shoving at his chest. The oni relents, shifting his weight back onto his haunches. “You found her!” he booms, pleased. “I didn’t know if you could. I’ve been after her for days, but she hasn’t let me close. I underestimated you, Ranger.”

Wincing, Throndir pushes himself into an upright position, supporting his weight on his elbows. If he were still mortal, he’d have bruises all along his hip and his back where his body struck the ground. Now, he’s not so certain. His body aches, but the pain is already fading. And anyway, Red Jack is on top of him and it’s hard to think about anything else. The oni burns like a furnace, and despite all the layers of clothing between them, Throndir can feel the intense heat of his body.

“She was injured, she let me near,” says Throndir. Jack’s weight is pressing him down into the ground, and he squirms, pinned in place.

Jack grins. “I know. She had a run-in with the Ordennans. And she outwitted them all, clever girl!” he says. There’s unmistakable pride in his voice, as if the Doe is another one of his boys. “They were no match for her, of course, but that arrow—” He shakes his head and tosses his coarse black hair back over his shoulder. He’s wearing it loose; it’s usually tied back in an untidy topknot. It’s a good look, and Throndir’s eyes follow the movement, tracing the strong lines of Jack’s broad neck.

“You hate to see her hurting,” Jack says. “And she wouldn’t let me close enough to take care of it. But I thought that you might have better luck.” Jack grins, black eyes crinkling, and Throndir’s heart beats a little faster. “Of course, it wasn’t just luck. You’re damned good at what you do, Ranger.”

Throndir’s face heats at the praise. He still has the Ordennan arrow clutched in his fist, and he presses it into Jack’s palm. “Good enough to win the wager,” he says. He looks up at Jack through his lashes, and he can’t help the lopsided grin that spreads across his face.

Jack’s eyebrows shoot up. Frowning, he takes the arrow from Throndir and turns it over in his big hands, running his finger over the fletching. He laughs, tossing it to the side. “So you have,” he says, eyes sparkling. “Have you given much thought to your favor, Ranger?” he purrs, and he leans in again, angling his face toward Throndir’s.

As invitations go, it’s pretty overt.

Throndir surges up to kiss Jack, bringing their lips together with more enthusiasm than finesse. And that’s fine, they’ve both been waiting  _ years  _ for this. It was an inevitability, like the return of the sun, like the slow slide of winter into spring. What are a few moments of fumbling, in the face of all that?

Jack’s lips are chapped but warm, his stubble scrapes Throndir’s cheek. His tusks are an impediment, but he pulls back to adjust the angle and then leans in again and  _ that’s  _ much better. One enormous hand comes up to rest on the back of Throndir’s neck, holding him close while calloused fingers card through his hair. Throndir shudders and his lips fall open; Jack’s tongue slips into his mouth for just a moment, teasing and soft.

The kiss is gentle, unhurried. Jack moves maddeningly slowly, pulling back whenever Throndir tries to speed things along. He tries to get his hands into Jack’s clothes, but the oni laughs softly and catches his wrists, holding his hands down at his sides. “What’s the rush, Ranger?” he says, and his voice is like cedar smoke, like a gulp of whiskey on a cold day. “I intend to take my time with you.”

Throndir groans, unable to stop himself. “Have mercy,” he says, just on the edge of begging, “haven’t we waited long enough?”

“Time is long,” Jack murmurs, his lips hot against Throndir’s neck. “You should learn to make the most of it, Ranger.”

He kisses down Throndir’s throat, tugging at his collar to expose more of him. The touch of his mouth is gentle, maddening. Throndir’s mouth falls open and he finds himself struggling against Jack’s hold, trying to free his hands. He wants to get his hands on Jack, to feel the heat of his skin, the hard bulk of his muscles softened by layers of fat and flash. He wants to get his mouth on Jack’s chest, to follow the trail of coarse hair down his belly to his groin. He wants, he wants, he  _ wants _ —

Jack palms at Throndir’s erection and he groans, arching up into the contact. “Jack,” he gasps, “Jack,  _ please! _ ”

“What do you want, Throndir?” he purrs.

Throndir looks up at Jack, breathless. It takes a moment for him to goad his mouth into speech. “Don’t stop,” he gasps, “please, Jack, don’t  _ stop. _ ”

The oni chuckles and bends to kiss him again. This time, the heat of him is overwhelming, and Throndir knows he’s making embarrassing noises against Jack’s mouth, but he doesn’t care. Jack is pulling at Throndir’s waistband, hand slipping into his underthings to catch at his aching cock. He whimpers at the touch of his calloused palm, rutting up into the contact while he clutches at Jack for support.

“So eager,” says Jack, breath warm against the shell of Throndir’s ear, and then he draws back, repositioning himself so his head is level with his crotch. Jack untucks his shirt and opens his trousers to free Throndir’s cock. Red Jack makes an approving sound as he takes Throndir in hand, a grin playing across his lips. “You have a gorgeous cock,” he says, his his voice a low rumble in his throat, “can I suck you off?”

“ _ Yes, _ ” says Throndir, and in his eagerness, he can barely get the words out. “Yes, Jack, please—”

As Jack takes Throndir into his mouth, he keeps his eyes intent on his face. His tongue is textured—not  _ quite  _ like a cat’s, but rougher than a human’s or elf’s—and Throndir shudders at its touch. “Fuck,” he splutters, trying not to thrust up into Jack’s mouth, “ _ fuck!” _

Smirking up at Throndir, Jack takes hold of his hips, pressing him down into the ground, holding him still. He begins to move in earnest, tongue sliding along Throndir’s length. Throndir gasps, bucking in his grasp, but he can’t move. Jack has effectively immobilized him, pressing him down into the ground as he sucks him off. His hands are absolutely massive, easily two or three times as large as Throndir’s. He shudders, eyes falling shut as he imagines Jack turning him over, using those hands to open him up. He’d be trapped, helpless, at Jack’s mercy—

Groaning, Throndir reaches out blindly and wraps his hands around Jack’s horns. He’s not trying to direct him, just trying to hold on, to hold back. Jack had teased him for his eagerness, his impatience—he doesn’t want to end things early by finishing too soon. He wants to make this last, but Jack isn’t making it easy. It’s obvious how much he enjoys seeing Throndir pinned and helpless underneath him, dark eyes wandering the length of his body, lingering on his flushed face, his panting mouth. Again, he makes that sound of approval, that low rumble like a cat’s purr. This time, it reverberates through Throndir’s cock and he shudders, unable to bite back a whine.

“Jack,” he warns, “Jack, I’m going to—”

He comes with a shout, his dick twitching as he spills into Jack’s mouth. The oni pulls back, grinning, mouth spit-slick and shining with Throndir’s come. He spits onto the ground and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. He’s about to say something, but Throndir surges up to kiss him, chasing the salt of his seed on Jack’s tongue. Jack kisses back, laughing, shifting his weight so Throndir can feel his cock through his clothing.

“You’re huge,” he says, wonderingly, fitting his hand around it, “Jack you’re so  _ big.” _

Jack’s laugh is ragged this time, and Throndir realizes he’s trying not to push forward into his hand, trying not to be too eager. Throndir looks up at him, grinning. “What’s the rush?” he says teasingly, dropping his voice in imitation of Red Jack. “I intend to take my time with you.”

“You’re an ass,” Jack says, strained. “You got me all worked up, listening to the noises you make.” He’s looking at Throndir through his lashes, posture soft and unwary. This is the first time Throndir’s ever seen him this unguarded, and he’s struck by a sudden idea. It’s a fool’s errand, but this might be his only chance, so he decides to try.

He tenses his thighs, coiling his muscles and then lunges forward suddenly, catching Jack around the middle and toppling him. Jack lands on his back with a shout of surprise, his eyes wide. Throndir straddles his hips, holding him down, his hands flat against Jack’s chest.

He moves underneath Throndir, testing his hold without trying to break away. Throndir shifts his weight, keeping him pinned, and the oni laughs, black eyes crinkling at the corners. “Clever,” he says, and there’s a note of approval in his voice that makes Throndir’s face heat. “You have me at your mercy, Ranger. What now?”

In answer, Throndir undoes his belt and opens his fly, freeing his cock. It’s  _ massive _ , even larger than he had anticipated, and he sucks in a breath at the sight of it.

“ _ Wow, _ ” he says, idly running his hand down Jack’s length. The oni groans underneath him, a shudder going through him. Jack is struggling to hold himself still, cheeks puffed out and his enormous hands clenched into fists at his side.

Throndir grins, resuming his exploration of Jack’s cock, pulling back his foreskin to reveal the flushed tip. “Wow,” he says again, running his thumb over his slit to collect precome, “ncredible.”

Jack’s cock is broad, easily nine inches around at the base, tapering to a spade-like point. The tip is flushed purple, but the rest of his cock is the same vivid red as the rest of his skin. It’s bulbous, ridges running along the underside, and Throndir shudders, imagining how they’d feel, each of those bulbs stretching him wider as Jack pushed into him—

He’ll have to work up to it,  _ that  _ much is obvious.

Throndir wraps his hands around Jack’s shaft—both hands, he  _ needs _ both hands, because the oni’s cock is too big to get just one around it—and he sucks in a sharp breath. “You’re amazing, Jack,” says Throndir,, breathless, “you look so good like this.” As he speaks, he slides his hands along his length, jerking him off.

The oni shudders underneath him, lips falling open. Throndir watches him, and he understands now why Jack was so insistent that they take their time with one another. Breath caught in his throat, Throndir makes a study of Jack’s face, his furrowed brow, his bitten lips, his fluttering eyelids. His features are too monstrous to be called beautiful, but Throndir thinks he’s gorgeous, absolutely incredible.

“I want to feel you inside me, Jack, I know I’ll have to work up to it, but I want your cock, I want it so bad—” Throndir knows he’s babbling, but he doesn’t care, he’ll  _ die  _ if he doesn’t tell Jack exactly what he wants “—I’ve been thinking about it since we met. I want you to hold me down and fuck me, I want you to use me, I want to feel you inside me and all around me.”

Jack tenses and then he comes with a groan, dick twitching in Throndir’s hold. His come is hot and thick and there’s so  _ much  _ of it, spilling down over Throndir’s hands and pooling on Jack’s belly. Without thinking, Throndir pops his fingers into his mouth, licking himself clean, and Jack tastes strange on his tongue. His come is rich and somehow sweet, not unpleasant. Like strawberries, Throndir decides, summer fruits hanging heavy on the vine.

“You taste good,” says Throndir, wonderingly.

Jack laughs. “You’re very kind, Ranger,” he says, and then he produces a handkerchief from somewhere inside his coat. Moving slowly, languorously, he cleans them both off, and when he’s finished, he pulls Throndir down beside him. They lay like that for a while, basking in one another’s warmth. It’s a rare moment of leisure, and they’re in no hurry to break the spell of their companionable silence and return to their duties at the Last University. They can stay here, for at least a little while longer. There’s no harm in it.

Somewhere nearby, the First Doe is nosing at the half-frozen ground, searching for the first tender green plants of spring. Soon enough, she’ll have a fawn, and that’s the way of things. She is at ease, for the first time in a long time, although there are still hunters, still whispers among the animals of strange, plant-like beasts stirring somewhere in the deepest part of the woods. Spring is coming.

She can feel it.


End file.
